Bird Point
We walked the corn fields
that sweltering Missouri July
I in summer-hardened bare feet
a polka-dotted sundress
you in those obscene cut-offs
cowboy boots, can of beer in hand.
We searched for arrowheads
there'd be dozens you swore
Pulaski county--once home to the
Quapaw, Missouria, and the Osage.
Heat dazed, I followed your
long-haired, flat-assed self
shared your bitter beer
visioned another me
in buckskins and braids
beads and moccasins
pounding meal from corn
both me's oblivious to
coming dissolution
in moonshine and disappointment.
We returned home
sunburned and tipsy
the single chipped bird point
rough in my hand.
It rattles in my handkerchief drawer
even today.
read more poems and tales around this prompt at Magpie Tales. Photo of Van Gogh painting provided by Willow.
